Footprints

by Budd Glassberg

Reprinted with permission from the Zionsville Times Sentinel on April 16, 2008

Incident at Penny’s Diner

It was dark at 7 AM and the road had iced over. I counted seven trucks that had jack-knifed off the road. I’d been driving for a over three hours out of Salt Lake City and was approaching Green River, Wyoming when the snow, fog and 30 MPH speed that most of us were traveling at the time convinced me to take a break for breakfast. I like stopping at diners for my morning meal when I am on the road. Just off Interstate 80, I found a shiny metal framed establishment called Penny’s Diner. My experience, when stopping at an eatery, is that most of the restaurants using the owners first name will have the best food. I am not sure why, but this rule of thumb has served me well over time.

Several truck drivers and I had the same idea. Entering Penny’s, I noticed most booths were either taken or still had dishes on them yet to be bussed and the entire counter was full of patrons. I chose an empty booth and waited for the waitress to clear my predecessor’s debris. The waitress, a women in her mid sixties looking rather haggard, eventually came to my table and apologized while clearing dishes. “Sue couldn’t make it in this morning due to the snow. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but I am the only one here.”

Dorothy, as her nametag informed, was indeed attempting to handle the entire diner’s customers. She tried her best to hide the toll it was taking on her as she took my order, pleasantly asking, “No meat?” after getting my order of eggs, toast and coffee. “No meat,” I said in my usual response to this question which had become all too familiar in my travels out west.

Instead of reading the newspaper I’d purchased, I decided to do some people watching at the diner. The cook, alone in her duties, was having no trouble keeping up with the orders. Many of the patrons were carrying on conversations with her while eating their meals. Most of the truckers didn’t stay for very long after getting their bellies full and loading up on caffeine. I observed most leaving a tip of a single dollar, or in some cases a dollar and whatever coin change came to them after paying their bills.

Dorothy brought me my breakfast. The eggs were hot and not greasy. The coffee and toast were fine. As I watched Dorothy, clearly having one of those nightmare days, I found myself thinking about how we tend to tip in fancy restaurants often based on the cost of the meal, not necessarily on the actual service provided. Dorothy, despite her shorthanded situation, was getting the job done and doing it in an agreeable manner. Most patrons barely noticed how hard she was struggling. Had I been reading my newspaper, I might also have missed it. It was when I saw her ring up another customer, while moonlighting as the cashier that I knew what I had to do.

After finishing my breakfast, I took a $20 bill from my pocket, folded it and hid its denomination from view with the coffee cup. I then brought my bill up to the counter and paid it while Dorothy rung up the charge. Without any knowledge of the tip, she told me to come back soon, a phrase all of her customers heard that morning.

Over the next hour of driving, I thought about Dorothy a few times. I know that a twenty dollar tip on a five dollar order is not a usual occurrence in Penny’s Diner. I also know that it certainly was no life changing event. However, I did imagine that it just might have helped make a very tough morning just a little bit more tolerable.

It seems funny, but I do think my small effort at helping a stranger who was having a tough morning was more of a boost to me than it was to her. It made me more aware that each of us can have a small, but positive influence on the people we interact with every day when we make ourselves aware of the plight of others. Dorothy probably had not thought too much about the tip shortly after she had received it. My guess is that she was too busy to have much time to think about such things. I’m sure Sue returned the next morning making Dorothy’s next day less stressful. Yet this little contact has stayed with me a week later and has continued to provide a warmth far in excess of its cost.

Budd Glassberg is a 23 year resident of Zionsville who works and volunteers in the community. Visit www.runz.com for reprints of all his columns. You can reach him by email at budd@runz.com.